The Crystal Prison

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘Well, there’s poor Young Whortle Nep with this girt deadly owl about to chew off his bonce when crashin’ through the meader comes the answer to our prayers – Madame Ak . . . Akky . . .’ Old Todmore was finding it difficult to get his tongue around the fortune-teller’s name. .

  ‘Stop a-doin’ that Abel Madder!’ he said vexed. ‘Now where was I? Oh aye, well, crashin’ through the meader comes the answer to our prayers Madame Ratlady.’

  Audrey did not know whether to be amused or alarmed at how the fieldmice considered Madame Akkikuyu to be their saviour. She wondered how those two young mice were faring after drinking that potion.

  Finally she reached the heap of feathering and gathered some spongy moss in her arms. Three other girl mice were there doing the same. They smiled at her nervously.

  ‘Hello,’ said Audrey.

  They nodded their heads in reply.

  ‘I’m Audrey Brown,’ she persisted.

  One of the girls, who had a mass of coarse, straight red hair said, ‘You be Twit’s friend.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Saw you last night with another towny.’

  ‘That’s my brother Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur is it?’ cooed one of the others.

  ‘Aye Dimsel, and only a brother,’ said the first.

  ‘Tush you,’ cried the one called Dimsel nudging her friend.

  The girl who had not yet spoken pushed the others aside and said, ‘How do Audrey. I be Lily Clover. This one with the nose of a hogpry be Iris Crowfoot.’

  ‘Hogpry yourself,’ shoved Iris.

  ‘And this be Dimsel Bottom, she’s mad keen on your Arthur.’

  ‘Oh Lily!’ , ‘It’s true ain’t it?’

  ‘Well!’

  Audrey laughed. She liked these three and she wished Dimsel the best of luck concerning her brother. For a while they chatted amiably then Iris said, ‘We best be goin’, our mams’ll take on so if we don’t ’ave the featherin’ done soon.’

  As they left Lily turned and asked Audrey, ‘You met Alison Sedge yet?’

  ‘No – I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well you just mind when you do – got claws has our Alison.’ Lily cast a lazy, lingering eye over Audrey’s ribbon and lace before she said, ‘Aye, you watch out, me dear.’ And with that she left.

  Audrey wandered back to Mr Scuttle. He had started work on her nest now and he called down to her. ‘Leave it down there missy if’n you’re not sure of your stalk paws yet.’

  Audrey waved to him then fetched some more.

  The morning turned into lunch time and merry wives brought out cheese and hot, fresh bread for their hardworking husbands.

  Gladwin Scuttle appeared with her arms laden and Arthur and Twit were following eagerly. They sat down and munched happily, Mr Scuttle swilling down the bread which stuck in his throat with some blackberry ferment and telling his wife how he was progressing. It was hot work and he was glad of the rest. He sat with his back to a stalk, his ears beetroot red.

  Mrs Scuttle passed a critical eye over her bedroom for the summer and nodded satisfactorily, then told her husband to help some of the others she had seen whose attempts at nest building were pitiful.

  ‘Ah,’ said Elijah, ‘Josiah Down won’t never learn if’n I always do it fer ’im. Never has patience with the framework, that’s what does it.’

  ‘Well,’ tutted Gladwin, ‘I passed Mrs Down just now and she did ask me to mention it to you.’

  ‘Reckon I’ll pop over later on,’ he promised.

  All around the light, happy sound of fieldmice talking, relaxing, eating and laughing filled the air. Audrey lay on her side and watched the inhabitants of Fennywolde content in their element. The Hall of Corn was near to completion. Nearly all the nests were finished and it was interesting to see the different styles. Some were perfectly round, others egg-shaped; there were small ones and those large enough to need supporting by many stalks. Yes, the Hall was a marvellous place and Audrey could not wait to sleep in her nest and see the stars shining through the small entrance.

  The midday sun glittered on the dust from the straw which swirled in a fine mist over their heads. It made everything look hazy and unreal.

  Twit saw her gazing round and said, ‘You should see it when the corn is really ripe, then it looks as if the entire Hall is made of gold.’

  ‘It is marvellous,’ she sighed. ‘Grand yet simple as well.’ She wondered if the fieldmice would decorate the Hall properly with garlands of flowers and chains of daisies. In a small way it reminded her of the Chamber of Spring and Summer that she had entered in Deptford when she had received her mousebrass. As she thought of it an idea came to her.

  Just then their lunch was disturbed by a cheer from some of the families and calls of, ‘Hooray.’ Audrey strained to see. There was Jenkin coming through the doors and with him was Young Whortle.

  The families rushed up to him to see if he was really ail right. But apart from some nasty bruises and a bandage over his shoulder he seemed fine.

  ‘It was that potion,’ he said. ‘Didn’t taste too good but made me sit up and take notice. Sammy’s gettin’ better too – that rat lady reckons he’ll be up an’ about in a few days.’

  The crowd murmured in wonder and praised Madame Akkikuyu’s skill in healing.

  ‘Where be she now?’ asked one of them.

  ‘Why she’s with my mam a-bottlin’ that stuff to keep for next time someone gets ill,’ replied Young Whortle.

  ‘That’s a turn-up for the books,’ whistled Arthur when all the commotion had died down. ‘Who’d have thought that goo actually worked?’

  ‘Well I didn’t, for one,’ said Audrey. ‘I look an even bigger idiot now, don’t I? Oh well, rather that than have one of those two get poisoned.’

  Lunch was over and Elijah climbed up to the nest again taking some feathering with him. Mrs Scuttle tidied up and went to the still pool to wash the bowls. Twit scurried up and helped his father.

  Arthur was eating the last bit of cheese absently. Then forgetting to wipe his whiskers, as usual, he pulled Audrey to one side and told her ‘Look, Twit’s been telling me about Jenkin – you really mustn’t tease him any more about those bruises you know.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ demanded his sister curiously.

  ‘Because his dad gave them to him. Apparently, Mr Nettle often hits Jenkin – thinks it’s good for him.’

  ‘Oh,’ stammered Audrey, ‘I feel terrible now. Why doesn’t his mother do something?’

  ‘Because she’s dead – died when he was born apparently and no-one else likes to interfere with Mr Nettle – he’s the mousebrass maker you see.’

  ‘Poor Jenkin.’

  ‘Yes – so just be a bit nicer next time, eh?’

  ‘Of course, Arthur.’

  ‘Well,’ Arthur said, changing the subject, ‘this afternoon I’m going to crack climbing one of those dratted stalks if it kills me. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh I’ve had an idea to make something for the Hall’

  Arthur regarded her doubtfully. ‘What sort of “something”?’ he asked.

  ‘A corn dolly. You know, like the ones at home in the Chambers of Summer in the spring ceremony. I’m surprised they haven’t already got some here.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t know how – I didn’t know you did either.’ Audrey shrugged. ‘Easy, I watched the Raddle sisters once.’

  Arthur considered the idea for a moment then said, ‘Yes, that sounds nice, you could present it to Mr Woodruffe when you’ve finished and let him decide where to hang it.’ He looked around to see if any crumbs had fallen on the floor but was disappointed, so he went off to talk to Jenkin again about his climbing.

  Audrey picked up some thin straws and began to plait them together.

  It was more difficult than she had thought. The plaits were impossible to keep even and free from ugly gaps. However, eventually Audrey became more adept with the straw and her confidence grew.

>   She intended to make something simple to begin with – a bell shape perhaps – but as the straw flicked between her fingers her ambitions for it soared.

  Audrey decided that the figure of a girl would be best, with corn ears for arms and a dress of bunched stalks.

  The afternoon wore on. The dolly grew larger under her fingers, far larger than she had intended. Some mouse children who had been running around playing chase stopped and watched her. They had never seen anything like it before and Audrey talked to them happily as she made it.

  Alison Sedge wandered into the Hall. Hodge had walked with her to the meadow but she was in such a sulk that he had left her and gone to join Todkin on sentry.

  Alison was thinking about Jenkin and the look that he had on his face when he saw that town mouse. It was uncomfortably hot and Alison was in a bad mood with the world. She decided to go to the still pool to bathe and admire her reflection. She had just been gathering some wild rosemary to rinse her hair with when she decided to see how the Hall was coming along and if her father had finished her own nest.

  It was as she crossed the Hall that she noticed a small crowd of children near the Scuttles’ nests. And there, in the centre of all the attention was that town mouse! Curious and irritated Alison tossed her head and strode nearer.

  The dolly was now taller than Audrey, its head was a loop of plaited straw and she was busily straightening it as at the moment the whole thing had an amusing drunken air about it.

  The children were watching everything Audrey did keenly. Alison quietly drew close and observed the scene acidly. She looked at the town mouse’s silver bells tinkling on her tail and noted with envy the lace dress. Alison glanced down at her own, simple frock which seemed shabbier by comparison and pursed her full lips.

  The dolly was getting better every minute and Alison saw the admiring looks Audrey was getting from the boys who went by. Young Whortle was leaning out of the large Nep family nest positively ogling.

  Alison regarded Audrey coldly, then a slow smile curled over her mouth and she spun on her heel and ran out of the Hall.

  There, the dolly was finished. Audrey was very pleased with the final result even though it was much larger than she had anticipated. The plaiting had worked well and only the Raddle sisters would be able to criticise it – but they were not there.

  ‘What’s it for?’ ventured one of the children shyly. ‘It’s a decoration,’ said Audrey. ‘Will you help me take it to Mr Woodruffe?’

  Eagerly small paws helped her lift the corn dolly and carry it to the wicker throne. Mr Woodruffe watched them approach with a puzzled look on his face.

  Audrey and the children put the corn dolly down and curtseyed and bowed before him.

  ‘Can I do something for you, lass?’ he asked.

  ‘Please sir,’ she began, ‘I have made this corn dolly to decorate your Hall.’ The King of the Field laid his staff of office on his knee and leaned forward to inspect the dolly.

  ‘It is most . . . unusual,’ he remarked jovially. ‘I wonder, could you teach our young ones to make such things?’

  ‘Why yes sir, they seem to enjoy watching me making this.’

  ‘Very well,’ declared Mr Woodruffe, ‘you Miss Brown shall—’

  A sudden commotion interrupted him. The doors of the Hall were thrust aside and Isaac Nettle stormed in.

  He rushed over to the throne with a face as black as thunder and no-one stood in his way – they had seen that mood before.

  Isaac pointed a shaking finger at the King of the Field and cried, ‘What heresy is this? What sin have thee welcomed, Woodruffe?’ He flung his arms open wide and yelled to the sky. ‘Forgive thy subject; Almighty, that he should have fallen into such folly.’

  ‘Isaac!’ muttered Mr Woodruffe sternly. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Mr Nettle glared round at Audrey. ‘Pagan idolatry! Brought hither by this unclean creature.’

  Audrey was astounded at his passion. She had never seen anyone so angry before and some of the children began to cry.

  ‘It’s only a decoration,’ she protested.

  ‘Silence, fiend of the deep cold,’ ranted Isaac. ‘Thy craft speaks for itself. It is a blasphemous effigy and mocks the design of the Green Mouse. Oh Great One, do not let us pay for the misguided deeds of the ignorant. She is the scum of the vile cities, the cream of the sinners – not one of your true servants. Punish us not for her wrong doing.’

  ‘Now look here!’ fumed Audrey, her astonishment boiling to anger. But he would not listen to her.

  ‘Shun the image maker,’ he cried to the mice who were gathering to see what was going on. ‘See how she wears her vanities!’ He flicked her ribbon with contempt.

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ she shouted, outraged.

  By now everyone in the Hall was watching them. Twit dropped his feathering and slid down the stalk.

  ‘Beware the maker of dolls. Repent ye or the vengeance of the Green shall smite ye down.’ Isaac moved nearer to the corn dolly and raised his fists to smash it. .

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ cried Audrey, pushing herself between him and the figure of straw.

  ‘Away profane one!’ roared Isaac shoving her roughly. Audrey stumbled and fell backwards.

  Twit reached Isaac before he had a chance to smash the dolly and stood glaring up at him, his eyes smouldering with a frightening fire that none had seen before.

  ‘Get thee gone,’ warned Mr Nettle harshly.

  Twit was breathing hard. No-one had ever known this mood in the little fieldmouse and the crowd gasped and wondered at the outcome. Twit’s teeth flashed as he bared them and put up his fist.

  ‘You oughtn’t to have done that,’ he shouted, trembling with emotion. ‘Try it again an’ I’ll do fer you.’

  Isaac stared at Twit and bawled, ‘See how the heathens taint your subjects, Lord. Out of my way simpleton.’

  Twit stood his ground and an alarming, unpleasant growl came from his throat.

  Arthur and Jenkin came running into the Hall. Word had spread round the sentries about what was happening.

  They saw Isaac raise his hard paw to Twit. ‘Father!’ shouted Jenkin. ‘No, you mustn’t.’

  Arthur sped over to Audrey and helped her up whilst Jenkin swung on his father’s arm.

  ‘Nettle!’ bellowed Mr Woodruffe. ‘That is enough. I will not allow you to spoil the Hall of Corn.’

  Isaac threw him a foul glance, but he persisted.

  ‘Listen to me. I am your king! I am the law here.’

  Isaac faltered and put his arm down slowly, all the while staring steadily into the level eyes of Mr Woodruffe.

  ‘I cannot allow this behaviour,’ continued the King of the Field.

  ‘I do but honour the Green and keep His laws.’

  ‘Maybe, but you offend me!’

  ‘Then I shall not enter here again,’ Isaac roared. He whirled round, snatched up the corn dolly and strode off crying, ‘This abomination has stunk before the Green Mouse long enough.’ And he carried it out through the doors before anyone could stop him.

  ‘Consider yourself banished from the Hall till your temper cools,’ the king called after him.

  All the fieldmice relaxed and muttered, shaking their heads. Then mothers came and fetched their children away from Audrey.

  Elijah Scuttle came puffing up red-eared and worried for his son. Twit though had calmed down.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked Audrey. She nodded and thanked him. Twit let out a great sigh of relief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ stuttered Jenkin to both of them. He was dreadfully ashamed of his father.

  ‘Oh Jolly Jenkin,’ Twit brushed the incident away as his humour returned, ‘thank ’ee for comin’ quick – I nearly let fly then.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Audrey said to Arthur, ‘I seem to be getting on the wrong side of everyone here, don’t I?’

  He tried to reassure her. ‘But it wasn’t your fault, I’m sorry about your corn dolly – you spent such
a long time on it.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m just glad no-one got hurt. That could have been very nasty then. Twit really took everyone by surprise, didn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe,’ remarked Arthur thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it’s this terrible heat as well.’ He frowned suddenly.

  ‘What is it?’ asked his sister.

  ‘Just this,’ he began slowly. ‘How did Mr Nettle know you were making a dolly? He passed below us in the field and he was angry before he got here.’

  ‘That is strange,’ agreed Audrey.

  From her nest, Alison Sedge watched them with a satisfied smile on her pretty face.

  8. The Voice

  Arthur made it to the top of a stalk at last, to the cheers of Twit and Jenkin. He could barely see them as night was falling and already its shadows were gathering about Fennywolde.

  Arthur gazed over the top of the field. The silver light of dusk played over the rippling corn ears so that it really did look like a shimmering sea and he, Arthur, was floating on it. It was a bizarre feeling. Now he began to understand the love that fieldmice have for climbing.

  ‘Come on Art,’ called up Twit. ‘I don’t want to stay down here all night – I wants me bed.’

  Arthur tried to slide down as he had seen his friends do but he scraped his paws and bloodied his heels, then landed with an undignified ‘bump’ on the hard ground.

  ‘Did ’ee like it?’ inquired Jenkin.

  ‘It’s just wonderful up there,’ enthused Arthur, scrabbling off the ground. ‘Could I be a sentry do you think?’

  ‘Wait till tomorrow Arthur,’ yawned Twit.

  ‘I’d best be off now,’ said Jenkin. ‘I’d like to stay with Figgy and the others on sentry but my dad wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘Will those mice be on sentry all night?’ asked Arthur, surprised.